


lessons in being

by disasterhumans (stellaluna)



Category: Critical Role
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, Character Study, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, First Time, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Identity Issues, Kidnapping, Lack of Communication, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-02-04 19:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaluna/pseuds/disasterhumans
Summary: Beau is four the first time she notices someone making fun of her name.An exploration of Beau's gender and sexuality over the course of her childhood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Beau asked Caleb to polymorph her into a male tiefling while they were in disguise in Assarius, I started thinking about the possibility that Beau might be non-binary--which got me thinking about how confusing that would have been, given what we know of her parents and her childhood. This is the first half or so of a story exploring Beau's internal conflict about both her gender and sexual identity. The full piece isn't quite finished, but I wanted to get something up for Beau Week and Lesbian Visibility Day--also overlaps with the Day One prompt for Childhood and pets.
> 
> If you want some elaboration on content warnings for this fic, check the notes at the end.

Beau is four the first time she notices someone making fun of her name. She's in the market with her father while he carries on an insistent conversation with one of the merchants. As they're going to leave, he turns to her and admonishes, "Beauregard, don't forget your manners." 

Beau does forget her manners, and as her father is pulling her away while delivering a lecture on proper decorum, she overhears two men at one of the stalls whispering to each other. "Do you think her parents were confused when she was born? Or just when dressing him this morning?" 

 

"Mother, why do I have a boy's name?"

Mrs. Lionett doesn't look up from the ledger open on her desk. "What are you talking about, Beauregard?" Her tone is somewhere between distracted and cross as she continues to make notations in the book in front of her.

"My name. People say it's a boy's name."

Her mother’s hand freezes, pen hovering over the page. Beau sees her frown, just a bit, before the expression clears and she returns to writing. Beau bites the corner of her lip, afraid she's upset her mother.

After a long silence her mother finally replies, "Your father wanted a son."

"Why?" She feels like ants are crawling all over her skin, and bounces on the balls of her feet as her mother continues jotting something down.

"That's how primogeniture works," her mother says, as though that should be self-evident.

Beau frowns. "Primo...geni...what?"

Her mother sighs. She stops writing again, and pauses—long enough that Beau thinks she may actually look up at her. The moment passes, and her mother returns to writing. "You're too young to understand," she says, using the same tone Father uses when he says "the conversation is over."

Adults say that to Beau a lot. She doesn't like it. She also knows it's usually pointless to argue. But she can't just leave the conversation there, even if it means it'll be another week before her mother lets her speak to her again. She still doesn't  _understand_.

"Why didn't you pick a _new_ name?"

Her mother doesn't so much pause then, as freeze. And while she doesn't come out and say "we couldn't be bothered," Beau hears it all the same.

***

When Beau is five, her parents hire a governess to help her to become “a productive member of the household.” Which as far as Beau can tell means sitting around while staring at sheets of paper all day while other people actually _do stuff_.

Ms. Marseille teaches her how to read, which isn’t too bad—she’s always loved sneaking into their small library and flipping through giant tomes to look at illustrations of giant beasts and creatures, imagining herself as a knight on horseback, riding in to slay the hydra and save the Empire. Now she can try to read the words surrounding the pictures she’s used to craft those stories in her head. But Ms. Marseille also insists on trying to teach her things like “posture” and “table etiquette,” which is far less entertaining.

Early on, Beau tried to convince Ms. Marseille to join her in a make-believe sword fight. But Ms. Marseille just shook her head with a disapproving sigh she seemed to have borrowed from Beau’s mother. "That's not suitable for young girls,” she'd said.

Beau had crossed her arms and yelled, "Well then I don't _want_ to be a girl," before storming off.

***

There’s a stretch of time when Beau’s seven or eight that her mother and father grow colder and more distant than usual. The entire house feels like a chill has settled over it. It reminds her of the summer one of her grandparents passed away and the entire house became shadowed and draped in dark fabrics.

If a death preceded this bout of chill, Beau doesn’t know whose it was. One week her mother and father seemed oddly hopeful and cheery—by their standards at any rate—and the next they refuse to even share a meal with her.

One night as she’s sneaking from her room, she sees a woman draped in colorful silks and a heavy, embroidered cloak leaving her mother’s room. Beau presses her back up against the wall in one of the darkened halls. Her parents rarely have guests over this late, and whoever this woman is seems to have only thickened the tension permeating the Lionett household—she can hear her mother and father speaking in low, anxious tones from where she’s hiding in the hall.

As usual, no one’s thought to let Beau in on whatever the secret is.

As the woman walks by, Beau sees her tuck a deck of cards into the bag resting at her hip, along with a small, but entirely full coin purse.

 

After that night, she finds her world has narrowed. Her father’s always been fairly protective—she’s never been allowed to go out into town on her own, though plenty of other kids do so. Even when she goes into town with her father—and on rare occasions, with her mother—she’s never allowed to stray more than a foot or two away from whomever’s accompanying her. Now, she’s lucky to convince her parents to let her play in their own yard. When she asks why, she gets variations of the non-explanation, "because I said so," with the occasional "it's not safe," thrown in.

Her best chance at getting out of the house for any stretch of time is to accompany one of her parents to one of their "important social functions." Whenever she does, Father insists she be dressed as a "proper young lady." She chafes under the layers of fabric, and hates how restricted she feels in whatever overly complicated dress her mother has forced her into. But she becomes good at finding ways to sneak away from her parents as they’re distracted by whatever boring conversations adults have at their boring parties. Nine times out of ten she comes back home with new tears in her dress, and dirt-stains along the hem.

One evening she hears her father mutter angrily, under his breath, "It's like all the worst parts of having a son, with none of the benefits."

***

She’s ten and she’s lonely.

She spends most of her days trying to escape from Ms. Marseille’s increasingly incessant lectures about decorum and the importance of being “ladylike.” More often than not she finds herself in the library (which, for whatever reason, is _not_ where Ms. Marseille chooses to conduct her lessons). She’s moved past reading stories of knights saving kingdoms in favor of taxonomical records on beasts and magical creatures. Whenever Ms. Marseille notices her choice of reading material, she snatches the offending book from her lap, insisting, “That kind of knowledge isn’t what a husband wants his wife to possess.”

Beau bites back the comment that she doesn’t _want_ a husband—she knows that’s an argument lost as soon as spoken.

Some days she’ll just sit in the giant window in the library that overlooks the Marchands' yard. The Marchand boys have taken to chasing various small creatures around in their free time. Some days she longs to join them—to join _anyone_ , really—but most days she wishes she could scoop up whatever poor creature they’re tormenting and give it a new home next to her bed. Lately they’ve taken to trapping rats and then dangling them by their tails. Which makes her _livid_ , because she’s read about rats, and she knows they’re really very clever, and deserve far more than being tossed around by a bunch of grubby-handed boys.

Beau stomps away from the window and goes to find that book again.

Beau’s standing in front of her mother, who’s copying information into one of the accounting ledgers. Her palms are sweating, the scraps of paper filled with facts she’s carefully copied down curling in her hands.

“Mother?”

“Yes, Beauregard?” As usual, her mother’s eyes remain fixed on whatever she’s working on.

Beau takes in a deep breath, preparing the speech she’s spent the past few days practicing. “I know I can’t go into town and ‘goof around’ with the other kids. But, it would be nice to at least have a pet to keep me company. I’ve done a lot of reading, and I think a rat would make an appropriate pet for me—” Beau hears her mother’s sharp intake of breath, and the rejection preparing its departure from her lips. She plows ahead. “I know that’s a strange choice, but they’re really very clean, and smart. And they aren’t very large, so it wouldn’t be too hard to take care of it! Plus, they can be trained to hunt! It’d be a good way to keep the vineyard clear of bugs, and—”

“Beauregard,” her mother’s voice is cold and hard.

Beau’s jaw clicks shut.

“The answer is no.”

“But—”

“ _Out of the question_ , Beauregard.” Mother is now staring up at her, and Beau knows that if she’s bothering to look away from her work, there’s no hope of Beau getting anywhere with her argument.

Beau clenches her fist, the sound of crinkling paper lost to the angry buzz that’s begun in her ears. She swallows as she feels hot tears begin to well up, turns on her heel, and walks away.

 

The next night her Father informs her that her “free time” would be better served learning how the business is run, rather than reading and crafting arguments about rodents.

“You want to act like a _boy_?” he spits, anger and resentment filling the gaps between his words. “Then take some _fucking responsibility_.”

***

By age twelve Beau's mastered the art of sneaking out of her second story window. She doesn't even wait to go out at night on days when Ms. Marseille is away and her parents are too occupied to pay her any attention. She’ll just change into a set of nondescript clothes she purchased one day after swiping a few silver pieces from her mother's coin purse. She doesn't doesn’t do much of anything, most of the time. Mostly people watches. Sometimes she’ll pilfer a book from the library and just find a quiet patch of grass to read on—taking in the novelty of the freedom to fucking _breathe_ .

She doesn't really have any friends in town—most people only seem to be vaguely aware that the Lionetts have a child, let alone a daughter. Only the Marchand boys seem to consistently notice her enough to pay her any attention.

One afternoon she decides to sit underneath the shade of a large tree just outside of marketplace in the center of town. She’s grabbed a book on the history of the approved deities, and has it open in front of her, when all of a sudden a foot enters her field of vision and kicks it out of the way.

“Oh look, it’s _Beauregard_ ,” one of the Marchand boys sneers.

Beau clenches her jaw and grinds her teeth. “It’s Beau.”

Another one of the boys laughs, “‘Beau’? How is that any better? It’s still a fucking boy’s name. And you’re just a stupid little girl. I bet your father—”

Beau doesn’t remember standing up, or swinging out a wild fist, but as her knuckles connect with a jaw, a rush of satisfaction runs through her. There’s no art to the blow—much as she’s read books about various forms of hand-to-hand combat, she’s never had reason to try to _use_ it before—but the boy still doubles over in pain, clutching his face. She smirks and bends down to snatch her book off the ground before storming away.

 

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long. One of the boys must have ratted her out to their mother, because when she sneaks back into the house later that evening her father is there, arms crossed over his chest, murderous expression on his face.

“What. Were you doing. Out of the house?” He bites out.

Beau is suddenly, incandescently, angry. “You can’t just keep my locked up in here like I’m some sort of fucking _priceless artifact_ ”

“Beauregard, you know as well as I do that it’s not safe—”

“What, because some fucking soothsayer told you the family was cursed?”

“Beauregard, watch your language. That’s no way for a lady to act. Furthermore, neither is assaulting a—”

“What does it matter if I’m a _lady_ or not? You never even wanted a daughter to begin with—”

Her words are cut short as the back of his hand connects with the side of her face. It’s not quite hard enough to hurt. But it stings, and makes her feel like she’s two feet tall.

“Don’t presume to know what I do and do not want, Beauregard,” he says, voice perfectly even, before turning to leave her alone in the room, tears welling in her eyes.

***

One morning as she’s walking past the mirror in her room she stops short, eyes fixed on her chest. She reaches up to poke at the new, soft flesh there, and grimaces. Apprehension fills her, skin prickling as she pictures the new dresses her mother will have made, the conversations about _dancing_ and _courtship_ … She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and turns to start digging through her closet for the loosest fitting shirt she can find. When she looks back in the mirror, all the telltale hints of _girl_  are gone, and some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders.

She looks nondescript—nothing like the son her parents wanted, nor the daughter they tried to build in his place.

***

"Hey." A low voice carries out from one of the side streets Beau is walking past.

Beau frowns and stops up short, turning her head in its direction. "...Hello?"

"You're the Lionetts’ kid, right?"

Beau manages to hold back a bitter remark in response to that and says. "Yeah, why do you care?"

The figure, who Beau now sees is a woman—a girl, really, maybe two or three years older than her—steps forward and out of the shadows. She has a hood pulled up over her face, though. She smiles as she looks at Beau, and something warm pools in the pit of her stomach. "There's a gold coin in it for you if you can swipe a bottle of port from your parents’ cellar."

Beau frowns—she's not exactly new to pilfering things from her parents, but stealing from the cellar is another matter entirely, and much riskier. Plus, she's more than capable of lifting a solitary gold coin. On the other hand, the mysterious girl's proposition offers up something else—an opportunity. Beau’s not stupid (despite what her father might claim at volumes that are just high enough for her to hear, whilst low enough to maintain plausible deniability)—she knows that there's a fairly organized crime syndicate that operates out of—or at least has a branch in—Kamordah. This single job may leave her just a gold richer. But if she can manage to prove herself useful to just _one_  person? Well, that opens up a whole wealth of  options. There is one problem though—

“The cellar is padlocked, and I don’t have a key.” And stealing one would be much more difficult than swiping a couple silver pieces.

The girl smiles. “That’s an easy problem to solve.”

 

The girl—who eventually introduces herself as ‘Svet,’ which Beau immediately assumes is an alias—leads her down a series of side streets and narrow paths before they wind up in an abandoned loft. The door is chained and padlocked shut, and Svet pulls out a small leather case and unrolls it to reveal a set of tarnished put delicate looking tools.

“This is an old lock picking set of mine. It’s yours if you can open this lock without breaking anything.”

Beau stares at her for a long moment. “What, you just expect me to do it without knowing anything about it?”

Svet smiles and pulls down the hood covering her head. Her hair is bright red, gathered into a braid over her left shoulder, and the right side of her head is shaved down to her scalp. Without knowing why, Beau reaches up to brush over the side of her head where her hair is currently gathered into a messy bun. Svet gives her a look that reminds her of the one adults give her when they think she’s clueless and find it precious. It’s kinder, though, if also sharper. And for the first time in a very long while the look makes Beau want to impress the person in front of her, instead of decking them in the face.

Without another word, Svet takes out two of the small metal tools, carefully inserting one into the lock, and the other below it. Beau tries to follow the movement of her hands as she works at it. Barely a minute passes, and the lock pops open with a soft click. Svet closes the lock again and turns to face Beau, offering up the set of tools. “Your turn,” she says.

Beau takes the case into her hand to find Svet’s returned the tools back to their respective sleeves. But much as her mother and Ms. Marseille may admonish her for never paying attention—because who wants to learn about _place settings_ and _varietals_ —she remembers the two tools Svet picked out to use on this lock. Beau starts trying to replicate what she watched Svet do, but there’s clearly something she's missing.

“You’ve got to feel around for the pins,” Svet explains.

Beau nods, but doesn’t really know what that means.

“It’s weird the first couple of times, but you’ll start to get a feel for it,” Svet says with a confidence Beau is wholly unfamiliar having directed at her.

It takes the better part of fifteen minutes, but Beau eventually gets the hang of it, and the lock pops open again with the tools still intact.

Svet's smile is wide and satisfied, and Beau thinks she’d be willing to do a lot to see that smile directed at her again. “Well, Beau, you’ve got the makings of a true criminal.”

It’s the first thing someone’s offered that she thought she might actually want to be.

***

She’s sixteen, and her parents have become more insistent about her attending social outings and gatherings with them. They range from dreadfully dull to exceptionally aggravating. She no longer sneaks out to start playing in the dirt—what may have resulted in a frustrated lecture when she was four is much more likely to result in a slap or refused meals, now—so she’s taken to lifting small trinkets and jewelry from party attendees out of boredom. And because it pays. It’s been a year or so since she met Svet and her “friends.” Svet doesn’t actually live in Kamordah—just runs jobs there on occasion—so Beau only sees her every few months. Each time she’s back in town Beau tries to have a respectable haul for her to fence.

Still, getting one over the rich fucks and stuck up politicians in attendance only provides so much entertainment. She still has to sit—and stand, and dance, and chat—through hours of tedium. Of boys making increasingly gross passes at her and other girls in attendance. Of girls giggling and gossiping with each other behind fake smiles. Of girls and boys alike pointing at her and whispering about the way her dress always hangs awkwardly off her frame—because try as she might, she can never quite keep herself from hunching her shoulders while wearing anything that doesn’t conceal her chest. Her parents can drag her with them to every stupid dinner party that comes along, but there’s not much they can do about her posture.

 

Tonight her parents have dragged her to a show put up by a theatre troupe passing through from Deastok. Of all the things she’s forced to accompany her parents to, plays are to worst because she has to _sit_ in _one place_ for _hours_. She’s always jittery within the first ten minutes. She’s never even attempted to follow the plot of whatever ridiculous story is being put on. But at one point Beau looks up and sees that the lead actress is naked from the waist up. Her back is facing the audience, but that’s not really what holds Beau’s attention, anyway—at least it’s not the _only_  thing that holds her attention. The character is wrapping a thick strip of cotton fabric around her chest, and when she turns to face the audience her breasts are bound, and lying flat. Something catches in Beau’s throat, and as the character continues to dress—pulling on trousers, a linen shirt, a vest—her vision blurs. And then the actress picks up a set of shears from one of the set tables and begins cutting her hair. After half a second Beau remembers the actress is wearing a wig, but she watches the locks of horsehair fall away with a tug of longing pulling at her stomach.

Beau still has no idea what’s really going on—the main character is pretending to be a boy for some reason, and there’s a Duke, and a shipwreck, and about five complicated love plots—but she watches the rest of it with rapt attention nonetheless. At one point the actress, still in disguise as a boy, is pulled into a kiss by the lady she’s been sent to woo for someone else, and the world feels like it’s been turned on its axis. For one wild moment Beau wishes that she had been born the son her parents wanted. That there was one thing she could have without reservation.

 

Later that night, once her parents are in bed, she sneaks into the washroom and pulls out a set of shears and her father’s straight razor. She sets up a couple mirrors so she can see the back of her head and carefully shaves a section at the nape of her neck—low enough that she can hide the shaved patch with a low ponytail. She runs and her fingers over the smooth skin and marvels at how good it feels. She half-smiles at herself in the mirror, and barely recognizes the look on her own face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr! I yell about Beau and Caleb a lot as @disasterhumans.
> 
> The second chapter should be up within the next week--and the rating will likely go up to Mature, as well.
> 
> Also, the scene where Beau tries to convince her mother to let her get a pet rat is inspired by [this post](https://theres-no-comma.tumblr.com/post/182974446432/well-now-im-imagining-10-year-old-beau-with) by @theres-no-comma.
> 
> This fic explores Beau's relationship to her gender in a town and household with prescriptive gender roles. As such, there are a lot of gender based insults and derisive comments directed at Beau throughout the fic, many by her parents. Her parents are also neglectful and emotionally abusive. There's also a scene where Beau's father slaps her, which is later implied to be a common occurence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what was originally meant to be a relatively short scene in the second half of the story spiraled out of my control, and is now an entire chapter unto itself. Hopefully I will manage to _actually_ finish the story in the next week or two, but while I have deeply enjoyed writing this, it also takes a lot out of me.
> 
> Also, friendly reminder/warning that we have been given absolutely no indication that there was any part of Beau's childhood that was uncomplicatedly pleasant. Further warnings/elaboration thereof at end of chapter.
> 
> And!! A [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/12147276059/playlist/0KpgUIDKqLOWQ5vlGBkfRl?si=AS_aQFvKR86tb35j5_0o1Q) exists!

On of Svet's next visits to town, Beau has two cases of bootlegged wine she’s accumulated over the past month. They’re meeting in a run-down inn whose owners either pretend to know nothing about the illegal business dealings that happen in their establishment, or directly profit from them. From the glances Beau’s managed to take at their records, she suspects the latter. 

Svet is looking over the stolen jewels with a discerning eye as Beau stands by the door, shifting her weight from foot to foot, nervous about what she’s planning. When Svet turns to look back at her with a small smile, Beau takes a deep breath and pretends she knows what she’s doing. “Would you like to try some of the wine?” she asks, and is pleased when her voice comes out sounding steady and sure. 

Svet laughs softly. “You mean the watered down juice?” Svet gestures to the crates sitting in the center of the room. “I think I’ll pass.” 

“No. I— um— ” Beau’s tongue feels too big for her mouth. She pauses, and tries to calm her racing heart. She pulls another bottle of wine from her bag. “I haven’t even opened this one,” she says, forcing herself to meet Svet’s eyes. 

Svet’s smile turns wolfish, and Beau hopes that the answering surge of warmth that runs through her isn’t visible on her cheeks. Svet stalks forward and plucks the bottle from her grasp, sitting it on the small table by the door. She pushes her way into Beau’s space, and Beau finds herself taking a step back, letting Svet crowd her up against the wall. 

“Maybe we can have a glass after,” Svet says, voice dipping down to a range Beau’s never heard it enter before. Svet curls a hand around the nape of Beau’s neck, and draws her into a kiss. 

It’s pushy, and fast. Beau doesn’t know what to do with her mouth or hands, fumbling like an uncoordinated foal. Her hands flex at her side, and she reaches up to grab hold of Svet’s tunic, hanging on for dear life. Svet starts walking them backwards, further into the room, as her lips part against Beau’s mouth. Beau stumbles forward, mouth falling open with a whisper of surprise. She feels drunk and almost giddy. 

Svet pulls back with an easy, expectant grin, and Beau stares for a moment, winded, feeling oddly on the verge of tears. The kiss hadn’t been long enough to leave her so breathless, but it’s knocked her off balance all the same. It shouldn’t be this overwhelming. It’s just a kiss. 

But it also feels like wading into uncharted waters without a compass. She has no map for this—no idea of what she should do, who to be, or where to go. 

Svet is still standing in front of her with a lazy smile on her face. Beau squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, projecting a confidence she doesn’t truly feel. She rises up on the balls of her feet and drags Svet back down into another kiss. This one is slower, as Beau tries to work out exactly what her mouth should be doing. And it’s…nice. There’s none of the intensity of the first kiss, but that’s better somehow. She sinks into it, arms looping around Svet’s neck. She barely notices that they’ve reached the bed until Svet sits back on the edge of it, pulling Beau down into her lap. 

Svet draws away again, reaching up to undo the tie keeping Beau’s hair up. She runs a hand through it, tipping Beau’s head to the side to press a line of kisses along the edge of Beau’s jaw. She blows warm air over the skin behind her ear, and Beau whines softly, hips rocking forward in Svet’s lap. 

“Keep doing that,” she says. 

Svet’s lips curl into a smile as they trail around to the front of Beau’s neck—where her Pelor’s apple would be, if she had one—and continue biting down Beau's throat. 

“Yeah? You like that?” 

Beau nods as Svet continues leaving bruising kisses down the length of her neck, and her slip under Beau’s shirt. “Get this off,” she says, low and hot, already pushing the fabric up and over Beau’s head. 

It’s strange, sitting in Svet’s lap bare-chested. Everything feels very real in a way it hadn’t yet. Beau’s hands start shaking, and she balls them into fists by her side to hide it. Svet looks up at her like she wants to devour her whole, and Beau feels helpless but to let her. 

Svet’s hands glide up Beau’s back, and around to cup her breasts. She brushes the pads of her thumbs across Beau’s nipples. Beau’s breath hitches as pins and needles crawl up the back of her neck. She fidgets in Svet’s lap, feeling at odds with herself. The touch feels good against her skin, but it also sends a spike of _no,stop,wrong_ rushing through her. Most days she manages to forget the awkward weight of her breasts. She hides under layers, and loose clothes, and tries to ignore the ways she doesn’t quite fit the shape of her body. But now her focus is narrowed to Svet’s hands on her breasts and she wants to fly out of her skin as much as she wants to sink further into it. Her mind is screaming— _away,away,getaway_ —but she pushes it aside. She’s supposed to like this, right? It should feel good, and she’s just _stupid.broken.wrong_ , and maybe if she just ignores it, maybe if she just— 

Beau pulls Svet up into a kiss with a small, broken off cry, biting at Svet’s lips and yanking at her hair. Svet responds with a muffled grunt, and leans into it. Beau’s hands are clumsy as she grabs the bottom of the Svet’s tunic and pulls it off. Her nails scratch down Svet’s back, and Beau sits back to take in the sight of Svet bared before her. She manages to forget her own naked discomfort as she runs her hands along Svet’s shoulders, and lets her hands wander—over the soft expanse of Svet’s stomach, grazing up the sides of her ribs—before coming to rest against Svet’s chest. 

Svet smiles anew, and circles her hands around Beau’s wrists, just holding them there. Beau feels fuzzy and warm again, her unease slipping back to a darkened corner of her mind. She tries to break free from Svet’s grasp—testing, just to see what happens—and Svet lets her go, face carefully impassive. For a few seconds, Beau’s hands hover in the space between them, neither of them moving, neither of them taking a breath. And then Svet’s expression morphs into a roguish grin. In the next second Beau finds herself pinned to the bed, both hands snatched up in Svet’s unrelenting grip. 

For the first time, Beau feels close to the steady surety she’s been trying to perform all night. She thrusts her hips to meet Svet’s, and looks up with a challenging glint in her eye. “Come on,” she says. 

“‘Come on,’ what, Beau?” Svet’s tone is almost mocking as she trails a finger down Beau’s chest, and slips her hand into Beau’s pants. 

Svet presses the heel of her palm against her. And Beau just. Freezes. It throws her off balance. It’s not only the feeling that all of her pieces refuse to fit together. It's a sudden, all-encompassing panic that she couldn’t have anticipated, and can’t understand. Without thinking, she breaks free of Svet’s grip and reaches down to grab her other arm. 

“Wait.” Her voice is strained, aching. She doesn’t want this to end. She doesn’t know when she’ll get a chance like this again. She won’t stop just because her stupid, broken body won’t _cooperate_ for once. Maybe she can’t do _this_ , but she can do _something_. “Wait,” she repeats. And then, voice shaking, “Can… Can I?” 

Svet frowns, confused. “Yeah, whatever you want.” She drags her hand back up the length of Beau’s body, and tangles her fingers in Beau’s hair. She leans down over Beau's body, her lips ghosting over Beau’s. “What _do_ you want?” Svet asks, as she takes one of Beau’s hands, moving it to cup one of her own breasts. “Do you want to fuck me?” She moves the same hand down between her thighs. “Do you wanna eat me out?” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Beau says, rough with feeling. “Fuck. Let me— I want to—” 

“Come on, then.” Svet rolls onto her back and Beau is scrambling, eager. She presses kisses all along Svet’s chest and torso, and her hands roam over every bit of exposed skin she can find. Beau hooks her fingers under the waistband of Svet’s trousers and tugs them off, before settling between her parted thighs. 

This is yet another thing Beau doesn’t know how to do. But it doesn’t fill her with the same panicky feeling that’s been visiting her throughout the night. There’s a thrill of excitement here, in the anticipation of discovery. 

Beau goes slowly, at first, exploring. Tasting and testing—noting when something she does makes something catch in Svet’s throat; repeating a movement when it results in a low keening sound; doubling down when Svet’s breathing turns fast and pitchy. Sometimes Svet will direct her—with a hand in her hair, or a short command—and Beau will respond with a small sigh or moan of her own. Svet’s hips start rocking up into her without restraint, and Beau flushes, hot and needy, enjoying herself without reservation. She shoves a hand down between her own legs, overwhelmed with the knowledge that she’s making Svet fall apart above her. She moves her hand against herself, groaning into Svet's wet warmth. She’s met with a loud, shocked cry in response. 

“F-fuck, Beau,” Svet gasps as the movement of her hips becomes erratic. The same rush of pride Beau feels whenever she manages to impress Svet burns through her, and Beau thinks she might do anything to hear that punched-out breath of awe again. 

A wave of sound and feeling crests over her, crashes into her, and Beau lets herself ride it as it carries Svet away. 

Svet’s hips drop back to the bed, and she pants like she’s just finished outrunning a crownsguard. Beau turns to press her face against Svet’s thigh with an open-mouthed whine. Her eyes are burning with tears, and she’s _so close_ , drunk on the sound of Svet coming undone beneath her. She doesn’t know why touching herself like this doesn’t fill her with the same sickening _wrong,not-right_ as Svet doing it. But she can’t think about that right now. She’s buried in sensation, grounded by Svet’s hand in her hair. 

With another small cry, Beau collapses against Svet, winded and worn out. 

The two of them lie there in relative silence for a few minutes, catching their breath. 

“Come here,” Svet says, voice soft with exhaustion, and maybe some small hint of affection. Beau eases her way back up the bed, swiping her arm across her mouth as she does. She settles under Svet’s arm, and pillows her head against Svet’s chest. Svet’s fingers find their way back into Beau’s hair, scratching gently at her scalp. The tears that started welling earlier threaten to spill over. She feels...good, she thinks. Is she supposed to feel different, now? She’s not entirely she does. But she’s also not entirely sure she doesn’t. She decides that’s something better left to think about in the morning. Instead, she lets sleep wash over her, savoring the sensation of being held by another person, without pretense. 

  


Beau wakes to grey light filtering in through the window and a crick in her neck. She’s still pressed against Svet, but has curled further into her embrace over the course of the night. Beau traces idle patterns across her skin, and feels compelled to press a kiss to her shoulder. 

It's a few minutes before Svet shifts against her. Beau looks up to watch as she blinks awake, and looks down at Beau blearily, before pulling away with a small frown. 

“What are you still doing here?” Svet asks, voice hoarse with sleep. 

Beau’s entire body flushes hot with embarrassment, then goes suddenly cold with shame. She flinches away, and Svet leans over the edge of the bed to grab her discarded shirt. “I— uh—,” Beau starts. She hates that she can hear the quiver in her voice, and the frantic beat her heart is tapping out against her chest. “I just woke up,” she says, not sure whether that works as any sort of explanation, but unsure of what else to say. 

Svet huffs as she continues pulling her clothes back on. “I thought you knew how this worked,” she says, with the same tone of frustrated disappointment she uses whenever someone fucks up some simple directive. 

And it’s not that Beau’s never had it directed her way before, but usually she at least has some idea of what she’s done wrong. Right now she feels more like she does whenever she’s broken some unspoken rule around her parents. Svet’s expression even mirrors her dad’s look of detached disdain. Beau’s surprised by how quickly her vision goes blurry with tears. She’s had years of experience disappointing people; she knows how to shove her feelings of gross inadequacy aside until she’s found some quiet place to scream, or cry, or break something about it. Here, the best she can do is turn her face away and hope Svet doesn’t notice the emotion on her face. 

“I’ll just— go,” Beau says, haltingly. She begins putting her own clothes back on with sharp, jerky movements. 

Once she's fully dressed she stands, ready to flee the room and pretend like she'd never step foot in it to begin with. Before she’s taken more than a step away from the bed, Svet grabs her wrist and pulls her back. Svet's expression hasn’t exactly gentled, but there is some kind of sudden understanding there. But it's mixed with pity, and that’s _worse_. “Hey,” Svet says, like she's talking to a spooked horse. She pulls Beau down towards her, and presses a soft kiss to her lips. “I had a good time.” 

Beau swallows thickly and barely manages to stop herself from yanking her arm back. “Yeah. I did too.” If there's an accusatory note in her tone, Svet lets it go unacknowledged. 

She crosses the room, pulling on her best _I don't give a fuck_ façade. When she reaches the door she sees the unopened bottle of wine sitting innocuously on the table. She snatches it up, and shoves it in her bag as she walks through the door, refusing to turn back. 

  


Later, Beau sits on the floor of her room with the bottle cradled in both hands, staring down at it blankly. She doesn't feel like crying, and all the anger has come and gone. Instead, a cold numbness has settled over her. She can feel it crystallizing, creating another sharp-edged barrier between her and the world. 

Beau allows herself precisely five minutes to throw a pity party, before levering up off the floor. She fishes a wine key out from the back of a dresser drawer, uncorks the bottle, and takes a swig directly from it. 

It's a small mockery of toasting a momentous occasion—celebrating some imagined rite of passage fulfilled. She’s tempted to pour a drink out on the ground, but she doesn’t have the energy to sneak out the house again, or to the clean the mess from the floor. 

The wine, objectively, is good, but it sits bitter and acrid on her tongue. She thinks of other tastes—sharp and just shy of sweet—flooding her mouth. 

Maybe it is more like honoring a memory. 

She looks around the room again, unearthing a wineskin that’d been shoved in a corner somewhere. She pours the remaining wine into the leather pouch and stows it away in her pack. It's a strange token, perhaps, to immortalize the night with. But some lessons require standing affirmation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost entirely a sex scene. Beau's age at this point in the story is somewhat vague, though I've been thinking of her as roughly 16-18, with Svet is a year or two older. Additionally, there are many points throughout the scene where Beau feels suddenly dysphoric or uncomfortable with what is happening, but doesn't say anything. Given that the story is from Beau's POV it is unclear how much Svet may or may not notice this discomfort, but nonetheless this may tip into "dubious consent" for some, and there is definitely a lack of enthusiastic consent at varying points. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! I am also @disasterhumans over there, and I liveblog the show most Thursdays.
> 
> Also, shout-out to [@twinvax](https://twinvax.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for suggesting "Pelor's apple" in place of "Adam's apple" when I had sudden bit of panic about what an Adam's apple would be called in a world with any of the Abrahamic religions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! This chapter nearly murdered me!! And is also far more time spent with the Cobalt Soul portion of Beau’s life than I thought I was going to write (though still not nearly as much as my brain kept trying to throw at me). This also means that this is...still not the last chapter. Given how much the past two chapters have spiraled out of my control, I think it's likely that there will be two more chapters (and maaaaybe an epilogue/coda?) before the end of this.
> 
> There's a small elaboration on warnings at the end of the chapter, but to my knowledge there’s nothing present here that wasn’t in the previous two chapters. 
> 
> It also feels worth pointing out that Beau most definitely counts as an unreliable narrator. Especially when it comes to her own self-regard (pun 100% intended)

Beau sits cross-legged on her bed flipping through her private ledger, when one of the housekeepers’ voices filters through the door. “Ms. Lionett, your father would like to see you in the drawing room.” 

“Fuck.” She scrambles to tuck the book away behind the headboard. 

“I’ll be down in a moment!” she calls through the door. 

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she falters for a moment, apprehensive. Her father stands in the center of the room flanked by two elves, each wearing a deep blue mantle. A small contingent of people dressed head-to-toe in dark black robes stands behind them. Beau turns to race back up the stairs, but as soon as she does, two black-clothed figures move to block her path. 

Her heart beats faster, every part of her going on edge; each muscle tensed and ready to spring. 

But Beau is nothing if not trained in the art of being caught off guard. She wills the tension away, and turns back to face her father with a carefully curated expression of impassivity. “You called for me?” 

Mr. Lionett stands tall, hands clasped behind his back, with a casually domineering tilt to his chin. “Beauregard,” he begins. “You have engaged in various…”—he sneers, making a show of searching for the right word—“indiscretions over time. All things considered, your mother and I have been remarkably understanding in light of them.” 

Beau thinks of withheld meals, locked doors, and bruised arms. Her parents are many things. “Understanding” has never been one of them. 

“I am afraid that our leniency has failed to communicate to you the full extent of the ramifications of your actions. It is my hope—and sincere belief—that the monks of the Cobalt Soul are better equipped to instill some manner of discipline and respect in you.” 

Beau’s mouth runs dry, and she swallows around it as she resists the urge to send her eyes darting around the room. She tries to take in her surroundings with a steadier gaze, noting the exits, obstacles—and one outstanding absence. 

“Where’s Mother?” she asks, hating the way her voice cracks over the words. 

The corners of her father’s mouth turn down, and his gaze sharpens. “She’s out in town, attending to business.” 

Beau has always been good at hearing the truths people choose to omit, and hears her father’s true meaning— _she did not wish to be here_ —with ease. The truth of it hurts all the more for being concealed, something she suspects her father knows. 

But she doesn’t have time to dwell on pointless feelings. All the same, she can’t tamp down the anger that burns through her. 

“I’m not going,” she says, with a confidence that she knows is unearned. The words are as good as spoken to a wall as to her father, and she braces for whatever manner of blow is sure to follow. 

“I am not sure what left you under the misguided impression that this was a conversation, or that you have any say in the matter—but I assure you that it isn’t, and that you do not.” He ends his pronouncement with a sharp turn on his heel, and exits the room with a small, dismissive gesture towards the assembled monks. 

Four of them step towards her, and she freezes in place as they close in around her. Every inch of her body is screaming at her to _run, escape_ , but she can’t make the feeling translate itself to action. Her chest aches with the force of her heart thudding against it, and her breath comes in shallow pants. She wishes they’d all rush and attack her so she can just _stop thinking_ , and react. Instead a slow, cool dread rolls in as they step towards her. 

When the first hand closes around her, the dread bursts into a wild panic, and she cries out, “Dad! _Dad!_ ” 

She doesn’t know who she’s calling for. Some mythic figure that never existed. She’d have better luck appealing to one of the gods. Her father doesn’t even offer up a disaffected grunt in response to her desperate pleas, just continues walking away, implacable in his resolve. More hands close over and around her—and then she’s finally moving, lashing out on instinct. She punches, and kicks; screams and bites. There’s no art or finesse to it. Just limbs moving, swinging wildly, hoping to connect with something—anything—that will bring down the wall around her. 

The moment never comes. Each punch is dodged, every kick sidestepped, and her bites fail to evoke even a flicker of irritation. 

She doesn’t even know what she’s fighting for. She has no devotion to this town; no fidelity to the family that refuses to claim her as one of their own. For years the only thing that’s kept her here is a lack of better options, and the scrap of freedom she’s bled and bartered for. A faction of monks who have no qualms kidnapping someone at their parents’ behest doesn’t strike her as a welcoming one. But will it be any worse than languishing in a home haunted by the spectres of stillborn dreams and broken expectations? 

Beau’s not sure whether it’s the fight that leaves her, or the monks that overpower her first. She just knows that one moment she’s fighting with everything she has to hang on to the only world she’s ever known, and in the next she just...stops. Stops fighting, stops screaming; stops pretending there’s ever been a single, solitary soul with any interest in acknowledging her pain. 

She stops. 

Breathes in. 

Feels the barbs burrowing their way under her skin, and lets them take root. 

The monks drag her away, and Beau refuses to look back on the place she’s never called home. 

***

“Hello, Beauregard.” 

Beau channels the impulse to wince into a snarl, and wonders if the willowy elf sitting across from her had been taught to use that particular disdainful drawl with her, or if it’s an essential part of the pronunciation of her name. 

The elf appears unfazed by her hostile expression, and continues on. “I am Archivist Zeenoth,” he says. “I have been charged with overseeing your transition, education, and training as you settle into place here at the Cobalt Soul.” 

Beau crosses her arms over her chest with a dismissive huff, and slumps lower in her chair. Zeenoth steeples his fingers, and regards her with a flat stare, clearsing his throat lightly. “I hear you were something of a...chaotic element, back home.” 

Beau raises a brow with a dry laugh. ‘Chaotic element’ is a descriptor she’s hasn’t heard before. It’s almost flattering. 

Zeenoth carries on. “It seems pertinent to inform you now, that any unruly or impudent behavior will not be tolerated here.” 

“Or what?” She asks with a challenging jut of her jaw. “You’ll beat me up and drag me off somewhere to rot?” 

Zeenoth’s posture shifts in reaction to her words, and his brow furrows with something Beau assumes is meant to resemble remorse. “We are sorry for the circumstances that brought you here,” he says. ”We felt it a necessary course of action to take.” 

“That’s an awful lot of blame-shifting pronoun usage you’ve got going on there.” Beau jerks her head up in an appraising nod. “How much did my father pay to have me abducted?” 

Zeenoth purses his lips and straightens his spine, holding his head high. “While the Lionett Family has offered a generous donation to the archives, you are here as a result of your demonstrated prowess, and because the monks here believe you would work well as a member of our ranks.” 

Beau’s responding laugh is short and humorless. “What gave you that impression? You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone willing to pay me even a backhanded compliment.” 

Zeenoth’s expression twists up into a kind of smile. “Much can be said against your favor, Beauregard. But you _did_ manage to pull off a smuggling operation beneath your parents noses for years before getting caught.” Zeenoth stands and circles the desk standing between them. “You are clearly a bright young woman, Beauregard. I am sure the Cobalt Soul would be honored to count you amongst its numbers.” 

Beau sinks further into the chair, and smothers the flicker of pride that sparks in her chest. 

  


“These are to be your quarters as you begin your studies here.” 

Zeenoth stands in the doorway of a small, nondescript room. Two narrow, bunked beds take up much of the space, and Beau spots a set of blue vestments folded neatly at the foot of each one. A young woman with warm brown skin, and close-cropped hair sits in a small wooden chair in the corner of the room. Beau notes that she is not currently dressed in the characteristic blue of the monks here; she wonders if the person who is evidently meant to be her roommate is here by choice, or through force. 

Zeenoth inclines his head towards them in acknowledgement. “I will leave the two of you to your introductions,” he says as he closes the door behind him. 

Beau stands awkwardly just inside the door, flexing her hands as she looks around to take in her new accomodations. In addition to the beds and chair, there is also an unadorned mirror propped against one wall, and a small chest of drawers next to it. Otherwise, the room is devoid of any color or personal effects. 

The girl closes her book and stands, extending her hand with a wide smile. “Hi! My name is Amara.” 

Beau stares down at the proffered hand for several long moments as she runs through potential responses. 

“Whatever.” Beau brushes past Amara to claim the bottom bunk by dropping down onto it unceremoniously. 

Amara’s smile falls from her face, and Beau ignores the rush of guilt that percolates in response. She turns onto her side to face the wall and shut out her surroundings. 

“Um. I’m sorry if I did something to, uh, offend you?” Amara’s voice is small and anxious when she speaks. 

Beau sighs and rolls onto her back, throwing an arm across her face. “Sorry,” she grunts. “You didn’t do anything.” She stops, intending to leave it there, but then feels compelled to add, ”This whole thing is just—fucked.” 

“You’re not excited?” Beau grits her teeth against the exuberance in Amara’s tone. “The monks of the Cobalt Soul are some of the best scholars and fighters in the Empire. I’ve wanted to train here for years.” 

Beau squeezes her eyes shut and ignores the tears that threaten to escape. She feels sick; wants to will away the nausea that sweeps over her. “Yeah, well. I didn’t really get a say in the matter.” 

“Oh,” Amara says. “Well, maybe this will end up being a surprising opportunity!” 

Beau has no idea what to say in response to that, so chooses not to dignifiy it with one. The room falls silent, with nothing but the sounds of Amara moving about to fill it. Beau wants desperately to fall asleep and escape the burden of thought and fear enveloping her. But the mattress beneath her is stiff and unyielding; the linen covering her thin and scratchy; the air in the room cool and dusty. She’d never thought of her room in Kamordah as “comfortable”—not in any meaningful sense—but she can’t help but miss her bed, and the small comfort of familiarity. It’s not enough to make her want to go back, but she’d had jobs, and connections, and a reputation back in Kamordah, too. She can’t help but long for those back. 

She wants to fucking hit something. Even miles away, her father has managed to control the limits of her freedom. She can’t leave without stepping into complete uncertainty. But staying at the Cobalt Soul and playing the good monk will just land her back where she doesn’t want to be. She’s surrounded by the kinds of opportunity and knowledge she could only have dreamed of back in Kamordah—but she can’t appreciate it, because she’s not really here to become a monk, is she? Her father sent her away to fix and reform her. If she plays along, studies, keeps her head down, Zeenoth, or the Head Archivist, or... _someone_ will report it back to her father, and he’ll sweep her back up to become the perfect little daughter-he-never-wanted. 

”What’s your name?” Beau startles as Amara’s speaks again. Her tone suggests she doesn’t really expect an answer, and Beau is tempted to confirm those suspicions by pretending to be asleep. But there’s no reason to treat Amara as though she’s had any role in creating the mess that is Beau’s life—even if her exuberance does grate on Beau’s nerves. 

“Beauregard.” Beau grimaces. “But, uh— You can call me Beau.” 

“Okay, Beau,” Amara replies with a considering tone—like she’s turning the idea of ‘Beau’ over in her head. “Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” 

Beau grunts again in acknowledgment and listens as Amara’s breathing shifts to the gentleness of sleep. Beau stares into the darkness of the room until she loses track of time. Sleep eludes her, and it feels like a losing battle to keep fighting for it. She slips out of bed and deposits herself heavily onto the cold stone floor, sitting back against the edge of the mattress and peering up into the night sky through the room’s single, small window. 

The monks hadn’t bothered to remove the few possessions she’d had on her when they took her from the Lionett estate, so she pulls out the wineskin she always keeps on her and takes a large swig, running through the past few weeks in her head. Where did she slip up? What finally tipped her parents off when nothing else had before? She runs through ledgers, and meetings, trying to pick out the one moment she’d managed to be so careless. It’s pointless. She _knows_ it’s pointless. It was always an inevitability that her parents would find out. It’d always been a question of _when_ rather than _if_. But she had always hoped that _when_ would come when she was ready to strike out on her own. And on her own terms. So she picks through everything in her memory of the last few years in the hopes that—even if she can’t fix _this_ —she’ll manage to stop herself from being such a colossal fuck-up in the future. 

She knows that she’s being the worst kind of maudlin right now; she can’t help the small, _stupid_ kernel of loss she feels—and she hates herself for it. She thought she’d stopped hoping that one day she’d earn her parents love or approval. She thought she’d stopped hoping that one day her father might realize he was actually happy—proud, even—to have a daughter. Or, fuck, just to have a kid that wasn’t a son. What the fuck was even the point in that distinction? What can a boy do that she can’t? Why can’t she be one if she wants to? Or something else altogether? 

She wants to throw up. She wants to start throwing things at the walls. She’s bitter, and angry—no, fucking _livid_ — What is she even mourning? Being dragged away from a place full of people who either don’t want her, or only pretend to? Being dumped in a place full of people who are bound to decide that they don’t either? She’s wallowing—miring herself in the kind of self-pity and pathetic feelings she’d deride anyone else for having. 

Beau barely notices the tears streaming down her face until she’s soaked with them. 

  


Morning comes to find Beau still laid out on the cold floor. A sharp rap at the door startles her awake. 

“We break fast in a quarter hour,” a brisk voice announces. 

Beau groans and tries to push herself to her feet, but can’t manage to coordinate her sleep-heavy limbs. 

“Beau?” Amara stands before her with a worried expression creasing her brow. “Did you fall asleep here?” 

“I guess,” she says, blinking against the pale light streaming through the window. 

“Well, come on, we’re going to be late, and you aren’t even dressed.” 

“You should go on without me,” she mumbles. 

“I could, but that seems rather unfair.” 

Beau snorts. “Who gives a shit about fair?” 

Amara blinks once, taken aback. “I do.” 

“Well. That’s new.” Beau reaches back to brace herself against the bed and tries to stand again. 

“Here, let me help you.” Amara reaches down to grab hold of Beau’s upper arm. Beau almost pushes her away, but much as she’d never admit it aloud, she really does need the help. 

“Thanks.” She avoids meeting Amara’s gaze as she says it. 

“Of course. That’s what roommates are for, isn’t it?” 

Beau shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Never had one.” 

“Well, it is,” Amara says with a decisive nod. 

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

“You should. Now _get dressed_.” 

“Fine, all right.” Beau quickly strips down to her underclothes and stands awkwardly next to the bed. She’s never needed to undress in front of another person she wasn’t planning on fucking before. Even then, she usually stays at least partially clothed. Amara is politely looking away, but she feels on edge regardless. Only one set of garments has been provided by the Cobalt Soul. It may very well be the only clothing option she has for years. Her jaw clenches at the thought. 

Beau takes a steadying breath and begins stepping into the new clothes. She refuses to look at herself in the mirror, but when she looks down at herself she finds the vestments hang on her in a similar fashion to the clothes she preferred to wear when working a job back in Kamordah. She turns back to face Amara, who frowns down at her waist. 

“Your belt is done wrong.” 

Beau does a quick double-take before plastering her best shit-eating grin on. “Why’re you looking?” 

Amara blinks rapidly. “What— ? I— Look, do you want help fixing it?” 

Beau’s grin dips down into a leer. “If you wanted to loosen my pants, you just had to ask.” 

Amara makes a sound halfway between frustration and amusement before moving into Beau’s space to undo the knot in her sash, sending a flush up Beau’s neck. It only takes Amara a few moments to re-do the drape and tie of the belt correctly. Beau half follows the movements of Amara’s hands, but finds herself distracted by the muscled length of her arms, and the soft sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek. 

“There, all set,” Amara says, with a final tug of the fabric and a self-satisfied smile. “Now let’s go, we’re going to be late.” 

***

The first few weeks at the monastery pass by in a blur of yellowed tomes and dusty scrolls. Of meetings with Zeenoth wherein he reprimands her lack of attention and discipline. Of failed attempts at meditation during which Beau grows increasingly anxious and fidgety as her thoughts spill out and over each other. 

The monks adhere to a strict daily agenda—a steady cycle of meals, lessons, meditation, and training—each day. The novitiates spend their first week learning the history of the Cobalt Soul and Cobalt Reserve, reading treatises on Ioun’s philosophies of knowledge. Beau finds herself enjoying her studies, but makes a show of feigning disinterest. It’s not a total act—the rigid timetables she’s meant to keep are tedious, and she finds being cooped up in a never ending parade of identical grey-walled rooms taxing. She’s anxious to begin martial training, one of the few things that keeps her from trying to leave, but that’s apparently not something initiates are allowed to do until they’ve been at the monastery for a few months. So time trudges on, with Beau steadily collecting a growing number of archivists irritated by her general apathy and irreverence. 

***

Beau fidgets in front of one of the changing room’s mirrors, running a length of thick cotton cloth through her hands. Most of the monks tape down their breasts for training. It’s something so simple—practical, really—that it shouldn’t make her feel like the world’s tipped onto its edge. But it’s something she’d never allowed herself before, afraid it might mark one step too far across the line her mother had drawn for her. Hiding under layers of clothes felt safer. But here, binding isn’t transgressive—it’s mundane. 

It takes a couple of tries to work out how tightly to wrap the fabric and fasten it comfortably in place. When she’s finished, she looks herself over in the mirror, and nearly cries. Beau can’t remember a time she’s felt joy, or settled in her own skin, so she honestly can’t say if that’s what she’s feeling now. But it must be something close, because in spite of the pressure around her chest, she feels lighter than she ever has before. The pressure even feels grounding. Steadying. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she can almost pretend the shape of her body fits her. 

She curls her wrapped hands into fists at her sides and smiles as an unfamiliar feeling of power courses through her. Maybe there’s a place for her here. 

  


Archivist Abene immediately puts her on edge. She reminds Beau of the some of the fences she’s worked with in the past. All sharp edges and disapproving stares and high expectations. Beau has a hard time focusing through the first lesson—she just wants to hit and break things. Wants to figure out how to take power into her hands. Abene is more interest in teaching basic forms, and that all-important ‘discipline’ people keep insisting Beau get. Abene’s constantly coming up behind her to correct her stance, or the way she’s holding her arms, or to admonish her for staring out into space. 

It’s tiring—constantly feeling like every small boon she’s granted is instantly be snatched away. 

***

“You should really do something about your hair,” Amara says as they get ready for bed one night. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Beau asks, pulling off her hand wraps with jerky movements. 

“It means, that one day someone’s gonna grab at it during a fight.” Amara crosses the room and begins rifling through one of the drawers. “Plus, I know you like your whole ‘above it all’ act, but it might do you some good to make a gesture at fitting in around here.” 

“So, what, I cut off my hair and suddenly all the archivists stop shooting me dirty looks?” 

“Maybe. But mostly, you should do it because you obviously want to.” 

“What do you know about what I want?” 

Amara turns to face her, clutching a small wooden box in her hands. “I know that you rub at the back of your head where your undercut is growing back in when you’re upset. And I know that you avoid doing anything more to your hair than putting it up into a hasty ponytail at all costs. I also know that for whatever reason you like intentionally preventing yourself from doing the things you want.” 

Beau grinds her teeth together. She hates that she’s so transparent. “So, what? Are you planning to like…chop my hair off so that I _feel better_?” 

“Actually, that was exactly what I was planning on doing.” Amara opens the box in her hand to reveal a set of shears and a straight razor nestled neatly inside. “Now sit down.” Amara drags the chair in front of the mirror and nods toward it insistently. 

Beau stays rooted in place. This is stupid. Cutting her hair to match the styles the other monks and novitiates wear may win her some modicum of favor. But it will also bring her one step closer to convincing someone that she’s reformed enough to be dragged back to Kamordah, where any of the hairstyles common among the monks will immediately earn the wrath of her mother, and the scorn of the town. 

Amara sighs. “Look, Beau. I don’t pretend to know what’s going through your head right now. But it’s just hair, okay? It grows back. And you don’t have to go full-on bald monk. We can leave enough hair so you can wear it down if you want to. But you clearly hate it the way it is right now, and this seems like a particularly stupid way to punish yourself.” 

Beau continues staring at Amara in stony-faced silence for another moment before worldlessly sitting in the relocated chair. 

“Just the back and sides, okay?” 

Amara meets her eyes in the mirror with a small smile. “Deal.” 

Amara pulls the tie free from her hair and runs a comb through it. Against her better judgment, Beau relaxes into the touch and lets her eyes drift shut for a few minutes. They flicker back open when Amara begins gently cutting her hair down to shoulder length. Watching the lengths of brown hair fall away feels like watching segments of her past fall free. The floor around her is carpeted in the remnants of a childhood spent being pruned and groomed into the wrong shape. 

There’s a sick, twisted irony to finding herself able to settle into an image of herself she not only tolerates, but maybe even enjoys, in the middle of place that exemplifies all the ways she’s had control of her body stolen away from her over the years. 

Many things about being at the Cobalt Soul feel similar to being back home—restricted movement, disapproving glares, stifling expectations—but just as many feel like a breath of fresh air, much as she’s unwilling to admit it. The required vestments are, technically, as prescriptive as any of the dresses her mother forced her to wear, but they don’t fill her with the same twist of unease. And it’s a relief not to have to take an hour out of each morning to figure out what to wear that will allow her tolerate existing in her own skin without pissing off everyone around her. 

Maybe Amara is right. What’s the harm in allowing this one thing for herself? 

***

__

> _…Personal pronouns in Elvish are not differentiated by the gender of the subject or object of a clause, but rather their grammatical case. Most Elvhen societies recognize several gender categories beyond the traditional binary construction used amongst many humanoid communities within the Dwendalian Empire. When speaking Common, some elves find it difficult to determine which pronouns others should use in reference to themselves. Some choose between the masculine and feminine pronouns at random, while others elect to use the neuter case. Sill others will pick a combination of the above, in an attempt to reflect a gender that Common has no existing terminology for._

Beau runs a hand along the stubble growing in at the back of her head and smiles as she copies the passage down in one of her journals. 

***

_Beauregard._

_We hope your time with the monks of the Cobalt Soul has proven to be an edifying experience. The decision to send you away was not one your mother and I made lightly. We needed not only to impart upon you the gravity of your transgressions, but also to remove you from the estate as we attempted to rectify the mess you left behind. The winery’s expenses are still recovering from the dent your smuggling activities put in them—as is its reputation. It is my and your mother’s sincere hope that your time at the monastery has provided you with ample opportunity to reflect upon the repercussions of your actions._

_We write to you with news that bears great import on the future of the family, and your inheritance. Your mother—after many years of failed attempts—has finally borne a son. Given your marked disinterest in serving as a productive member of the household—alongside your blatantly destructive actions against the business—your brother will be named the sole inheritor of the Lionnett estate and holdings once he reaches the age of majority. In light of this development, it would be best if you took this opportunity to sever ties with the Lionnett name._

_Respectfully,_

_M. Lionett_

  


Amara finds Beau sitting on her bed with the letter crumpled in her lap later that night. 

“Beau? Are you okay?” 

Beau’s laugh is strangled and wet, even though she hasn’t been crying. She’s numb all over—feet frozen, hands tingling with pins and needles. _Okay_ feels so far outside any realm of being she’s every inhabited, but she has no interest in admitting as much. She wants to run and hide, and stay right where she is all at once. She’s vibrating with the effort of trying to just _be_ without collapsing or shaking apart, and her thoughts are spiraling away. She can’t find purchase on anything she just wants— 

Beau reaches up and yanks Amara down into a kiss, pressing their mouths together in a desperate kiss, as though human touch will chase away the buzz of despair in her head. 

Amara pulls back away with a confused shake of her head. “What the— Beau—” 

Beau clenches her fist tighter in the fabric of Amara’s shirt and meets her eyes. “Do you want me to fuck you, or not?” 

Amara’s head jerks back a bit. “I—I mean. I don’t—” 

Beau drops her hand and shakes her head to try to clear it. “Sorry, that wasn’t… If you don’t want to that’s fine, I just—” 

“Beau.” Amara rests a hand on Beau’s shoulder and returns her look head-on. “Do _you_ want this? You seem a little...fucked up about something.” She shoots a pointed look down at the letter still clutched in Beau’s other hand. 

A month from now—hells, maybe even tomorrow—Beau may wish she’d taken the time to think through her answer. But right now she knows that being in her body in this moment in time feels unbearable, and the only way to escape the sick, crawling _too tight,too much_ feeling is to focus on something—some _one_ —else. So she shoves everything aside in a box to look at later and nods. “Yeah. I want this”—and pulls Amara back in. 

The night passes in a hot desperate slide of bodies moving against each other. Beau pushes into Amara, drinks in her gasps and moans. Relishes the feeling of thighs pressed up around her head. Lets her thoughts be drowned out by the rush of sound and sensation that surrounds her. 

When Amara lies back to catch her breath, Beau moves up to press her face into their neck. 

“Gods. _Fuck_ — that was good.” Amara looks down at Beau. “Do you want me to…?” 

“Nah, I'm good. Go to sleep—Enjoy your glow, or whatever.” 

Amara nods, and presses a kiss into Beau’s hair, and Beau has to close her eyes against the tidal wave of emotion that threatens to crash over her. Amara’s breathing slows, and grows even, and Beau is taken back to her first night at the monastery, listening to Amara drift asleep. Slipping out of bed is much harder this time around. Beau has to gently unwind Amara’s arm from where it’s draped around her shoulders before carefully stepping out of bed. 

Beau looks around the room, taking it in. There’s nothing left for her here, is there? She blows out a shaky breath. She can’t stay. Her parents will stop sending money and the monks will kick her out. May as well save them the trouble. What good has she ever been here? Scarpered off classes; ignored instructors. She’s been nothing but a headache from the start, and now she’s losing the one thing that made up for all of it. So it would be better to just…go. Now. Steal away into the night and never look back. 

Beau looks down at Amara. She’d been kind to her, hadn’t she? Exasperated with Beau’s antics, maybe. But kind. What did that matter now? It’d only be a matter of time before she ruined it. She’s never been good for more than a quick fuck anyway. 

Beau clenches her jaw and squares her shoulders. She gathers her few possessions, takes one final look around the room, and leaves. 

She doesn’t know where she’s going, but for the first time in her life, her next steps are entirely up to her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens with Beau being kidnapped, in compliance with Beau’s canonical backstory description. There is also an oblique reference made to food depravation, isolation, and physical abuse in the first section of the story.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Amara was not supposed to be nice at first! She was supposed to be cold and standoffish to match Beau. But when I started writing her she insisted on being nice and overly cheery. It very much hurt everyone involved (including the writer) to have Beau walk away at the end there. (Also, if you please, imagine “Gravel To Tempo” from the 'lessons in being' playlist as the soundtrack during that final moment. It is, in fact, what the song is there for. Onto the Amber Road we go!)


End file.
